Sanctuary
by Kylenne
Summary: In a moment of fear and self-doubt following the Collector attack, the Commander gets a much-needed morale boost of her own.


Imani was in a brooding sort of mood, looking out over the CIC. Part of her thought it was strange the way this ship had become home. It wasn't the same as the old Normandy, not by a long shot. It didn't have the same feel as an Alliance ship, which was perfectly understandable given that it wasn't one. It was huge and brightly lit and maybe a little bit too sterile for her tastes. Sure, it was state of the art, and had a lot in the way of conveniences, ones she would have killed for on the Alliance ships she'd served on. Her quarters were far more luxurious than on the original Normandy, as a start. Still, it just felt...odd, to her, in any number of ways.

Despite that initial ambivalence, however, somewhere along the line Imani had come to love this ship as much as the SR-1. Maybe it was because to her, a ship was always more than just drive cores and armor plating and forward batteries. A ship was more than just its design and tech. She believed that a crew was what really made a ship, they were its heart and soul.

And regardless of however she may have felt about Cerberus as an organization or the Illusive Man, Imani saw some damned good people in this crew. They had courage and tenacity, as much as anyone she'd served with in the Alliance. Most iwere/i ex-Alliance, and it showed, but even the ones who'd signed up from the civilian sector with no military background showed a strong work ethic and exemplary professionalism. Hell, even the ones who were ex-mercs were quality. They were every bit as critical to the success of this mission as the specialists she'd personally recruited, and they had just as much at stake.

Beyond that, though, they were all on this mission for reasons beyond a simple paycheck. And these people weren't terrorists, they were concerned folks with families who wanted to make a difference. Imani respected and admired that. They were doing this for the same reason she was, and they in turn respected and admired her for putting her ass on the line.

Her love for and attachment to them hadn't occurred to her at all, in fact, until everyone was gone. These weren't just subordinates under her command, they were human beings whose lives and safety she was entrusted with. People that knew the risks, no question. Still, they relied on her. And she'd failed them.

Imani wasn't entirely sure why she needed to do this, making her normal rounds on a ship that suddenly had far fewer people to check in on. It wasn't as though she needed any additional incentive for this mission—but maybe all those feelings were why Imani had to take stock, why she had to see with her own eyes what had happened here in her absence. She had to see the consequences of her failure.

There were a lot of empty chairs, Joker had said, when she'd debriefed him on what had happened. It was the sorry truth. Her footsteps seemed to echo a bit louder in the silence. The CIC had never been loud, not really—but it seemed quieter then, much quieter. There were no holo displays active, no conversations in hushed tones punctured by occasional laughter or frustrated cursing.

No impish, flirty smile from Kelly as Imani walked by the empty station next to the Galaxy Map. Her terminal was dark, like all the others, and Imani didn't linger there. She couldn't.

A mild sense of dread gripped her in the elevator, because she had a feeling the crew deck would be worse. It was the heart of the ship, after all, if the CIC was its brain. People ate and slept there, played cards, drank and argued about trivia. The sense of emptiness would have to be more acutely felt there, the reality of what had happened that much grimmer.

And it was. Imani stepped off the elevator and strode with grim purpose to the mess area, for something to settle her stomach. A salarian cola, maybe, in place of the much stiffer drink she actually wanted.

It was just like the prefab homes in Freedom's Progress, and on Horizon: trays with half-eaten food still on the table. Gardner'd made chili while she was gone, and the air still smelled like simmering meat and tomatoes. She absently put the lid back on the open container of sour cream, and the trivial busy work for her hands felt oddly soothing. The last time Gardner made chili, there were a torrent of jokes about him just making more work for himself when he went to clean the toilets. Hell, Gardner was the one that told them.

He was another steady presence, suddenly missing. Whenever she got up in the morning, Gardner would have coffee waiting for her-black, with enough sugar to make even an elcor climb the walls. She'd gently tease him, asking if he'd washed his hands first. Sometimes he even said yes.

The Citadel news station would play on the vid panel near the table. Patel would insist on turning on SportsNet for the football scores, and the rivalry between Barca and Real Madrid would play out between her and Hawthorne on a ship light years beyond Earth and either club's actual city.

(No one dared discuss the implications of shrinking frames in the box scores as Colonial League matches were steadily being cancelled. Not when trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy and morale during breakfast.)

Imani would beam a friendly smile at Dr. Chakwas through the med bay window, which would be returned with one equally amiable. Sometimes she'd show off her tray with a cheeky gesture, as if to say, "yes, doctor, I'm eating enough. No, you don't have to threaten me with bio-shakes."

But none of that was happening, not in that moment. During that particular moment there was no one in the med bay to smile at her, no arguments over football, not one fucking thing. Just silence, chairs that were too empty and a pot of chili on the stove that was too full, and red grease on her hand from a spoon that had no business being dropped on the floor.

And it was all Imani's fault. If only she'd left someone behind, anyone-maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe her damn crew would still be here if she hadn't screwed this up so badly.

"Siha."

Imani looked up from the sink, a bit startled, to see Thane standing by the stove. Stuck in full on brooding and self-flagellation mode, she hadn't heard him approach, but given his propensity for skulking around like a ninja, she almost never did anyway. "Thane," she sighed, staring down at the dirty spoon again.

With customary quiet grace, he crossed the small space between them and embraced her from behind. "There's still a dishwasher," he said, gently taking the utensil from her hand. "You don't have to do any of this manually."

Imani leaned back into his arms and closed her eyes, taking a great deal of simple comfort in his warmth. "I know. I just-wait, how long were you standing there?"

"Long enough," Thane replied. He squeezed her tightly. "You need rest, siha. Your heart is heavy."

Imani gingerly untangled herself from his arms, and took the spoon back from him to put in the cleaning unit below. "I'm fine," she said in her best stoic officer's tone, swallowing down her moment of weakness.

"You are a poor liar," Thane said, caressing her cheek, "and there is little need for it. I already know that the unshakable Commander Shepard has a heart."

She sighed in defeat. There was no fooling him, not anymore. Thane was too observant, and they'd become too close, even in so short a time. He was getting as good at gauging her emotions as Garrus, and maybe they'd gotten to the point where being candid with him was the only thing she could do.

"It was a bad call," she began while walking to the elevator. "I shouldn't have taken you all on the shuttle, people should have been left to defend the ship in case of emergency. It was stupid, the kind of mistake that gets people needlessly killed. And now I've got twenty-four people paying for it on a Collector cruiser."

"You couldn't have known that the Collectors would attack, Shepard. No one could have," Thane retorted, stepping inside the elevator after her. "You are not to blame for any of this, and it cannot fall upon your shoulders."

"But that's my job, Thane," Imani shot back. "I'm the CO of this ship. Each and every life on here is one I'm accountable for. They're _my_ responsibility, and I dropped the ball." The more she said it, the angrier she seemed to feel at herself. All she could think of were those stasis pods on the Collector ship, the frozen colonists on Horizon. All she could think of was Dr. Chakwas stunned like them, dumped into one of those pods.

She shook her head, almost trying to physically stem the tide of those thoughts. That wasn't productive at all, and it wouldn't lead anywhere healthy. Imani had to stay focused if she was going to get through this. The elevator door opened, and Thane followed her into the cabin.

"Each of us has a responsibility to this ship and your mission," he said, sitting on the leather sofa. "We all knew the risks of fighting the Collectors, and the crewmen are no different in this regard. Berating yourself accomplishes nothing."

Imani nodded, and sighed again. She knew he was right, of course. Thane always was. Her expression turned sheepish then, with a self-deprecating smile. "I'm pretty good at it, though, aren't I?"

"Unparalleled," Thane agreed, in his usual deadpan, and she couldn't help but smile wider. Most people thought the drell assassin was cold and aloof, and he frequently was; but he possessed a dry wit and a level of sarcasm only Garrus could match. Imani liked this side of him, a lot, and she seemed to be seeing more of it lately, as he became more relaxed around her. With the tension gone, she was feeling a bit impish.

"There's other things I'm good at, you know," she said, sitting near him.

"Your biotic ability _is_ rather impressive for a human."

"Well, I was just going to kiss you, but I could charge you into a wall instead, if it's like that."

"...that thought holds some appeal." Thane's smile was utterly perverse, and Imani adored it. It sort of made her weak in the knees, actually. "Though we should find somewhere more spacious for such a thing. Preferably with fewer sharp corners."

"You're no fun at all, Thane," Imani laughed, and leaned in to hug him. "But you made me feel better. I appreciate it."

Thane wrapped his arm around her for another tight embrace, and she rested hers about his waist, her nose in his neck. He always smelled so good-rich, earthy notes, and for some reason it always reminded her of the Egyptian musk oil that burned in the temple on Mindoir. It was part of why it was so comforting when he held her. He felt like home, to her. It just _felt_ right being with him, the way it did with Garrus. And again she found herself feeling grateful that both men were so reasonable and patient with her. Imani drew strength from these connections, more than even she realized.

When at last Thane spoke again, his gently rumbling voice was filled with conviction. "We will see this mission through together, siha. I don't believe this is a suicide mission, not anymore. We may journey to the unknown through that relay, but it will not mean certain death, not with you to lead us." He leaned down and kissed her brow. "I believe in you. We all do. But you needn't carry these burdens alone. I am here for you, for as long as my body wills it."

Wordlessly, Imani stared up at him, and his glossy eyes were filled with affection, and devotion. Gods, Thane's eyes were beautiful, as dark as the night sky until he turned just so and a hint of brilliant green irises became visible in the light. She could lose herself very easily in those eyes, if she wasn't careful. Maybe part of her was still scared to do so, to lose herself in these deepening feelings for him, knowing what it would mean one day. Could she really do this again? Could she love someone just to lose them again?

The fear was creeping up on her again, that she was only setting herself up for heartache. Every time that fear began to knot itself in her stomach, she was taken back sixteen years to a past she'd tried her damnedest to put behind her, and had for the most part, but for someone else with green eyes-human eyes, then, not those of a drell, but they were beautiful all the same. It had been sixteen years, and she still occasionally saw those eyes in her dreams as he told her everything would be fine, that he was just leaving for a moment. She would stay, and wait patiently for him, and he would never come back. And every time, the hurt was fresh as it was in the morgue on Arcturus Station when she was asked to identify his body.

Imani knew she would be able to say goodbye to Thane, the way she couldn't to the boy who meant everything to a naive country girl on Mindoir; this wouldn't be a sudden and unexpected parting by any means, but anticipating didn't make it any better. There would still be that sorrow, bitterness, and the pain of being left behind, even if she had long since ceased being that naive country girl.

Looking into Thane's eyes, though, seeing the way he looked at her, and the passion he felt, the fear didn't seem to matter then. Not with the inviting warmth of his body against her own and his slender fingers idly curled in her hair. Not with those beautiful eyes telling her everything even his eloquent words didn't. Nothing at all mattered but being in the moment with him. Because if there was one thing at all that she'd learned, it was that moments like these were ones to be treasured, because one never knew when they'd come around again.

"Then be here for me tonight, Thane," Imani whispered, "and tomorrow we can worry about the mission."

She leaned in, pressing tightly against him, and parted his lips with her own. She was going to make the most of this moment, and this sanctuary.


End file.
